


Car Maintenance 101

by Zatnikatel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zatnikatel/pseuds/Zatnikatel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Spoilers up to 6.12/Like a Virgin; takes place after Chrysler Almighty</p>
    </blockquote>





	Car Maintenance 101

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sycophantastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycophantastic/gifts).



> Spoilers up to 6.12/Like a Virgin; takes place after Chrysler Almighty

“He does this when he’s pissed off.”

Castiel startles, recovers, briefly ponders the fact that admiring Dean Winchester from afar could get him killed one of these days if it distracts him to the extent something as large and heavy as Sam Winchester can sneak up on him from behind without him registering it.

“Fixes cars, I mean.”

Sam stands next to him, and his arms are crossed. Castiel has come to recognize this as a defensive gesture: Sam is hugging himself, a habit he’s picked up since Hell.

“He’s pissed off with you because you told me all the shit I’ve been doing since I got topside,” Sam adds redundantly. “I’m sorry about that.”

Castiel side-eyes him. “While I can understand Dean’s need to protect you, I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to keep secrets from you,” he observes neutrally. “Or you from him,” he adds, more pointedly. “After all, that’s partly how you both ended up sailing down shit creek without a paddle.”

Sam chews his lip, nods reflectively. They stand there, staring out at the lot, and Sam winces as they hear a loud crash, followed by blue streak of cursing. “So… you didn’t stick around after Stull then?” he asks suddenly. “I’m surprised.”

Castiel shrugs. “I was needed elsewhere. And Dean didn’t ask me to stay.”

“Would you have?” Sam’s tone is curious. “If he’d asked you, I mean?”

“He didn’t,” Castiel replies shortly, because that slight, so small in the scheme of things but so important to him, still hurts. “So it’s academic.”

It’s bright, the sun streaming down, scorching hot. In the middle distance, Dean emerges from under Bobby’s beat-up Charger, stomps around for a few minutes, kicks one of the tires and squats to hook a bottle of water out of the cooler parked next to the toolbox. He drinks long gulps, upends the rest of the liquid over his head. He seems unaware of them, or is ignoring them, Castiel thinks, and he settles on the latter. Dean hauls his tee over his head and stands with his back to them. Castiel’s eyes are sharp, and even at this distance he can see the play of muscles rippling under freckled skin as Dean stretches his arms up and then down and out to the side, before flexing them back behind him, gripping each wrist with the opposite hand, and rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks. Dean bends then, pulls out another bottle, pops the cap and tips the contents down his front, and over each shoulder, before he schleps around and leans in to examine the engine.

“Did you hear any of that? Cas?”

Castiel drifts back to Sam nudging him in the ribs, blinks up at him. “Any of what?”

Sam’s face splits in a smile, a warm, all-the-teeth smile that reaches his eyes, and Castiel is struck again by the difference in this version of Sam, the real version, and he marvels at how he could have thought the other one was viable. Dean was right, he thinks, with a stab of regret for even suggesting that it was feasible for some empty shell of the brother he loved to take Sam’s place.

“It’s good to have you back, Sam,” he says softly.

“It’s about to get even better to have me back, Cas.” Sam leans in, conspiratorial. “You know, Dean’s pretty mechanically-minded, loves taking stuff apart, putting it back together. It’s why he maintains the guns.” He turns, takes a few steps back to the porch swing and sits down, rocks it gently as Castiel swivels. Sam’s eyes are calculating, but a smile is curling his lips up at the corners.

“I don’t follow you, Sam.”

“Machines turn him on is what I’m saying.” Sam pulls up, considers. “Not literally, I mean. It’s just that he finds it a huge turn on if you speak to him in machinery…” He trails off, makes airquotes. “Engine, specifically.” He smiles at Castiel again. “Bobby won’t be back for a couple of hours,” he says meaningfully. “And I’m pretty tired. In fact, I think I need a nap. Over on the other side of the house, where I won’t see or hear anything that happens in the next, oh, hour or so.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, tilts his head, and for a flash of a second he examines Sam as closely as he has ever examined Dean, and he can see Sam squirm under his gaze.

“It was sort of my fault he never asked you to stay,” Sam blurts out then. “But I really didn’t think any of us would make it out the other side of that alive.” He shoots to his feet. “I think I’ll take that nap now,” he says, and his voice has gone high-pitched and he’s scrubbing his hand through his hair. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, Cas, but I can see it in your eyes, it’s been there since day one. And you know everything, so go… speak to him in engine.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Make up.  _Woo_ him. And I mean that just like it sounds.”

Sam moves surprisingly fast for such a big man, Castiel thinks, as the screen door slams behind him. He turns back to stare out at the car, the odd clanking noise now floating across from it. He ponders what Sam said for a few moments, finally shrugs off his trench and jacket and lays them across the porch railing. He does know everything, he reasons, his brain is a repository of the sum knowledge of humankind and their strengths and flaws, their abilities and limitations, their achievements and failures. He knows how their bodies work, knows how Dean’s body works. And he knows how this body he wears works, and that his racing heartbeat and dry mouth are signs he has already decided to do this.

And he knows how to speak  _engine_.

He steps off the porch and makes his way over to the car. Dean is still hunched in over the engine, sweat shiny where the sun hits his back, and there are black streaked finger marks where he has scratched and rubbed at his ribs and belly as he works.

Castiel hovers for a moment before he speaks. “What’s wrong with it?”

Dean snorts, doesn’t look up, and doesn’t reply for a minute. “Engine’s turning over but it won’t start,” he grudges out eventually.

Castiel nods, clears his throat. “Well, there are three basic things that can prevent the average car engine from running,” he ventures.

“Oh yeah?” Dean slants his eyes across and up, squinting as he does, and the sun makes his pupils into pinpricks so that Castiel stares back into bright green.

“Yes,” he continues smoothly. “While a thousand minor things can happen, the big three are a bad fuel mix, lack of compression, or failure to spark.”

Dean straightens up now, reaches for a rag and wipes his hands, cocks his head. “I’m all ears,” he smirks.

Castiel unbuttons his cuffs, starts rolling up his sleeves as he moves closer. “For example, Dean, if this vehicle were low on gas, the engine would be getting air but no fuel. Or if the air intake were clogged, there might be fuel but not enough air. The vehicle’s fuel system might be supplying too much or too little fuel to the mix, or there might be an impurity in the fuel.” He stops, takes note of Dean’s slightly glazed eyes, senses that Dean’s breathing has speeded up. “There could be water in your gas tank, Dean,” he continues, and he lowers his voice, adds a touch of rasp to it. “This could prevent your fuel from burning.”

Dean is standing three feet away from him, and Castiel can smell sweat and oil on him. Dean swallows, shifts uncomfortably. “There’s nothing wrong with my fuel,” he says hoarsely. “My fuel is burning.”

Castiel nods. “In that case, Dean, this problem you seem to be having with your engine could be caused by lack of compression.” He sidles closer, runs a fingertip across the top of the radiator. “If the charge of air and fuel can’t be compressed properly, the combustion process won’t work as it should… in those circumstances, the question is why aren’t you combusting?”

Dean clears his throat. “And… why might I not, uh –  _combust_?”

“Your piston rings could be worn, Dean,” Castiel murmurs. “Or perhaps your intake or exhaust valves aren’t sealing properly. This could allow air and fuel to leak past your piston during compression.” He licks his lips lazily. “Or there could be a hole in your cylinder. Or you might not be sparking… the wire to your spark plug could be worn out, or your spark plug could be defective. Would you like me to tell you more things that might prevent you from cranking?”

Dean is in a trance, eyes glued to Castiel’s face, flicking down to Castiel’s mouth every few seconds. His personal space issues seem to have been forgotten, and his reply is faint. “Fuck, yes.”

Castiel is reaching out a hand now, hooking a finger into one of the loops on Dean’s jeans, and tugging him closer so he can feel Dean’s breath on his face. “If the bearings that allow your crankshaft to turn freely are worn out, Dean, your crankshaft can’t turn, and your engine won’t run,” he breathes, and he pins Dean with his eyes. “If your valves don’t open and close at the right time or at all, air can’t get in and exhaust can’t get out, and your engine won’t run.” He places his other hand low on Dean’s side, his thumb dragging across the crest of his hip. “If you run out of oil, your piston can’t move up and down freely in the cylinder, and your engine won’t run.” He tilts his head, ghosts his lips across Dean’s. “And if someone inserts a root vegetable into your tailpipe, the exhaust can’t—”

“Fuck.  _Fuck_.”

Castiel’s vision swims for a second as he’s spun and flung bodily across the engine, its metal parts digging into his back as Dean covers him, pressing frantic kisses to his eyelids, cheeks, sucking on his jaw, savaging his mouth and forcing his tongue in to tangle hungrily with Castiel’s own. He snakes a hand under Castiel’s nape to pull Castiel up, twisting to get the angle right, rubs his cheek on Castiel’s stubble, and mutters breathlessly as he bites his way down Castiel’s neck.

“Cas. Jesus _fuck_ … cussing, sorry. Forgot. But so fuckin’ hot. Hot as the fuckin’ architecture…”

Now he can speak, Castiel does. “Dean, I was wrong, about Sam… his soul,” he gasps out, as Dean rubs the heel of his hand up against his fly, where he aches and twitches uncomfortably. “I didn’t understand until now, and I want to—”

“Shut the fuck up, Cas.”

Castiel closes his eyes, moans out a formless sound of satisfaction and pleasure as he hears his zipper slide down, and then Dean’s nimble fingers start rubbing and kneading at him through the fabric of his boxers, and all the while Dean is rutting up against his thigh, the other hand fisted in Castiel’s hair, fingers flexing, and his tongue is licking stripes along Castiel’s collarbone. Less than a minute after Dean slammed him down Castiel feels a tingle at the base of his penis, feels his scrotum go taut, feels a microsecond of  _too much_  threaded with sheer bliss, and then he’s clenching inside and coming hot and messy inside his shorts even as he tries to get his message across. “But Dean, I wanted to—”

“I want a better apology than that,” Dean hisses into his ear. “I want you on your knees. I want your mouth on me. I want to see your lips wrapped around me and sucking me down, Cas. I want to feel your stubble on my dick, and I want teethmarks on—”

Castiel surges up on a groan, sinks to his knees, clumsy fingers fumbling buttons, applies some angelic strength to ripping the jeans down Dean’s thighs, looks up.

Dean’s expression is a hazy leer, and his lips are kiss-swollen. “Yeah, commando. Convenient, huh?”

His cock is pointing right at Castiel, rigid and blushing, already glossy and liquid at the slit. Castiel swallows it down in one gulp, casts his gaze up to see Dean’s eyes rolling back in his head and his mouth making an O-shape. He grips it between his upper and lower teeth, rakes them lightly up its length to the tip, pulls off and grips it at the base, uses the head to caress his jaw, rubs his ever-present day-old beard against its velvet smoothness as he nips his incisors gently into the top and underside. He takes the tip between his lips again and runs his tongue across the glans, where he can taste Dean, and around and down to lap at the frenulum.

When he looks up again, Dean has slumped back across the engine and Castiel can’t see his face anymore, but he can see Dean’s right arm flopping languidly in his left peripheral vision, feel Dean’s left hand moving restlessly in his hair as he starts jacking him. Dean’s thighs are tensing and trembling, and Castiel hears Dean gasp out his name as his lips form a seal and he moves his head up and down, slicking his tongue along the shaft and sweeping it across the head on the upstroke. He pauses, holds the head there on his lip and growls around it. “I’m told the connecting rod attaches the piston to the crankshaft, D—”

He feels the judder start in Dean’s thigh where he grips it, and Dean croaks out his release as it hits the back of Castiel’s tongue, warm and bitter. Castiel holds Dean in place as he sags, hands firm on the crease where his legs meet his groin, swallows it all down, soothes Dean’s cock with delicate swirls of his tongue as it empties, before he pulls off.

He stands, zips his own pants as he stares down at Dean, spread out and filthy, his jeans round his knees, eyes closed and jaw slack, arms flung out carelessly. “I wish I still had my phone so I could take your picture, Dean,” he muses.

“You’re forgiven,” Dean murmurs dazedly.

“It’s good that Sam is back,” Castiel says in reply.

Dean cracks an eyelid. “Word to the wise, Cas. Don’t talk about my brother when we’re…” He waves a hand in the space between them. “Doing this. Whatever the fuck this is. It’s not exactly a turn on.”

Castiel moves to lean on the car beside Dean, lays his palm flat on Dean’s thigh, fans his fingers out in the soft hair, and rubs the skin. After a moment he feels Dean’s hand curling around him from behind, holding onto his shirt.

“It’s good that you’re back too,” Dean says.

***

  


  
_Thanks for reading… I hope you enjoyed it!_   


  



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